


Beg Me For It

by maxride003



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxride003/pseuds/maxride003
Summary: Even when he shouldn't, the Vagabond always has the upper hand. It would be better for everyone if they remembered that.





	Beg Me For It

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea from someone on Tumblr yesterday, and I had to write it. Hopefully you all like it, as you've probably noticed I haven't written much recently so I feel a bit rusty, but it was fun nonetheless. Enjoy the blood and torture.

“Answer me!” The growling voice was sharp and clear in the cramped basement, as was the crack of impact immediately after. Only a second later, a low, amused chuckle rose up, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls and floor of the small space.

The basement was a small workshop, fairly well kept but cluttered. Boxes and shelves were stacked up at one end, some of it tossed quickly to the side. Planks of wood were stacked up beneath the wooden stairs, and large saws and machinery took up a wall all their own. A table sat with small sets of drawers on its surface and tools hanging from hooks in a board above it. Some of the hooks were empty, their tools lying on the tabletop, some of them covered in blood that had spread over the towel they rested on. Thrown over one of the small sets of drawers was a battered leather jacket and a black skull mask.

Ryan sat in the center of the room, bindings tight around his chest, wrists, and ankles, keeping him in place in his seat. His dark shirt was torn and wet from blood, as cuts and small stab wounds crossed his chest and arms. A couple fingers of one hand were swollen and broken, and blood flowed from a broken nose and slowly filled Ryan’s mouth with its coppery taste where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. Despite it all, he sat tall, laughing in the face of the man in front of him as blood turned his teeth red and dripped from his lips, a stark contrast to the white face paint he wore.

The man wasn’t much bigger than Ryan himself with a rough, dark beard and hard eyes. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Ryan’s blood staining his hands and arms and spotting the front of his shirt, and he grabbed at a hammer lying on the table just behind him. “Tell me what Ramsey had you out here for, and we can be done,” he promised, voice raised over Ryan’s laughter.

Ryan quieted, grinning his bloody grin and he relaxed as much as he could even as his muscles twitched and limbs shook involuntarily from blood loss and injury. “You and I both know that’s not true. You don’t have the restraint,” he said, carefully trying to make his words come out cool and level without the comical, nasally effect a broken and bleeding nose added to speech.

The hammer swung down and slammed into Ryan’s leg with a heavy whack, the claw end cutting into his thigh and tearing open the skin. Pain flashed from the injury, white and hot, and Ryan’s breath caught in his throat for a moment as he fought to push the sensation away, wall it up to be dealt with later. Spots appeared in his vision and he let out a breath through his teeth, still maintaining his grin.

“You can’t even stop yourself when a man tied to a chair gives you mild criticism,” Ryan gasped. “And you need to work on your technique. There’s no  _ escalation. _ You start at one hundred and just go. Bad way of torturing someone, they’ll fall unconscious or die far sooner. It’s less drawn out and painful, kind of the opposite of what -”

Again, the hammer swung down, this time the flat end crushing Ryan’s hand and his words cut off abruptly with the snap of bones. “Shut up,” the man said as Ryan quickly worked to compose himself again, taking a slow, heavy breath. “Just tell me what you’re doing in our territory.”

Ryan met the man’s gaze levelly, trying to keep his grimace looking like a smile, and said nothing. The man’s eyes narrowed and he jabbed Ryan’s chest with the hammer, pushing it into some of the cuts, the bloody claw end hitting Ryan beneath the chin. “Talk, asshole,” the man growled.

“Do you want me to shut up or talk? Your instructions are confusing,” Ryan asked, and he could feel the hammer’s claw pressing into his skin as he spoke.

There was a moment’s pause before the hammer was pulled away and then slowly set aside on the tool table. Ryan watched, faintly surprised, and was caught off guard when the man turned back quickly, swinging his fist directly into Ryan’s solar plexus. Ryan’s breath left him and he tried to curl in on himself involuntarily, the movement stopped by the bindings keeping him in place. It felt like he couldn’t get a breath in, a heavy pressure on his chest, and he gasped for what air he could get.

The man knelt down to look Ryan in the face as he sat slumped in the chair, and a smirk played across the man’s face. “I promise, it’ll be a lot better for you if you just cooperate.” Ryan coughed weakly, spitting blood as he did so, and he slowly forced himself fully upright again.

Air still didn’t seem to be filling his lungs right, and Ryan took as big a breath as he was able, not much more than a quick, raspy gasp. His smile slowly returned and he leaned forward as much as possible, looming over the man as well as he could. “Beg,” he said, and the man frowned at him.

“What was that?” the man asked, settling back on his heels.

“Beg me. For answers,” Ryan said, slowly getting enough air again to speak, but his sentences were short and choppy, limited by his shallow breaths. “You want them. You need them. Or I’d be dead. Killing the Vagabond? You’d be a legend. But I’m not dead. I can do this all day. Or you stay there. On your knees. Beneath someone who’s tied. And beaten. And beg me for what you want. Beg, and I might help. And we can both be done.”

The man stared at him incredulously and then started laughing, pushing himself upright as his laughter echoed through the small room. He shook his head, turning his back to Ryan and running his fingers over the tools. “For someone who apparently does this all the time, you don’t seem to understand your position,” he said, grabbing a handsaw and turning it over in his hand. “You don’t have the upper hand here. You help me, or you suffer.”

He turned back to Ryan, who had taken the opportunity to compose himself more. “At this rate,” he said, looking at the saw, “not for long. And then you won’t get answers. And you’ll have my crew breathing down your neck. Show me how bady you want this information. We both might come away happy.” The fuller sentences were kind of strained, Ryan’s chest hurting with the words and his breath, but he was quickly recovering from getting the wind knocked out of him.

“Even if you do die, I don’t think the Fakes are going to be around here anytime soon. No one will know what happened to their guard dog for a long time,” the man said, gently running the teeth of the saw down Ryan’s neck and shoulder. “We’re far from where we started. None of your little friends ever saw what happened to you.”

The saw rested solidly on Ryan’s shoulder, the blades pressing uncomfortably into his skin, but Ryan continued to meet the man’s eyes calmly. The man leaned in close, grabbing onto the back of the chair with his other hand and getting right in Ryan’s face. “All you have to do is answer some questions. We started with the easy one. Why were you there?”

Ryan stared into the man’s cold, dark eyes, leaning his head back a bit to get some distance between them. And then he spit a mouthful of blood and saliva in the man’s face. The man pulled back in surprise, blinking it out of his eyes and swiping at his face with his hand, which only served to smear blood across his face. He snarled and bore down on the saw, the little blades biting into Ryan’s shoulder and tearing as it was pulled across his shoulder.

A low groan escaped Ryan’s throat as his shoulder screamed in pain, but it was quickly dulled into a quiet numbness. Shock and blood loss seemed to be kicking in, killing the pain to almost nothing, even as blood flowed readily from the new wound.

“You’re wrong,” Ryan said after a second, blinking new spots from his vision. “Someone saw. They know.”

As if on cue, the trapdoor at the top of the staircase was pulled open and slammed against the ground outside with a bang, making the man jump. He held the saw up threateningly toward the stairs as a smaller form in a vibrantly colored suit came down just far enough to get a clean line of sight and fire.

The gun cracked loudly in the basement, followed immediately by the man’s scream and the clatter of metal striking concrete as he fell to the ground and dropped the saw. He clutched at his knee, bloody and destroyed by a large caliber bullet, and Ryan could see shards of bone in the injury.

Jeremy stood on the steps, a gun that seemed much too large in his hands pointed at the man. Then he relaxed, throwing the barrel of the gun up to rest on his shoulder, and he looked down at Ryan with a pleased smile. “You look like shit,” he said, moving down the stairs and keeping an eye on the man on the ground.

“Took you long enough,” Ryan griped as Jeremy reached the chair and pulled a knife out from inside his bright purple suit jacket. The ties that held Ryan in place were cut quickly, and Jeremy passed the knife over. Ryan grabbed it with his good hand, the other swollen and held close to his body, but no longer hurting. Everything was starting to sound fuzzy and distant, like something was covering Ryan’s ears, and he frowned.

“I was dealing with all your other friends outside. They’re kind of assholes. One of them shot a hole through my hat,” Jeremy said, pointing at his cowboy hat and the small hole in the brim.

As he spoke, the man uncurled himself from his leg, scrambling for one of the drawers nestled beneath the table. Ryan and Jeremy turned toward him, and Jeremy aimed his gun at the man again while Ryan dropped down to the ground. He held his newly acquired knife to the man’s throat and the man froze, glancing over at Ryan. The anger and contempt that had been in his eyes before was quickly fading and giving way to pure fear as he looked from Ryan to Jeremy and back.

“I warned you,” Ryan said. “Now. Beg. Beg me for your life, convince me not to show you real torture. Beg for some kind of forgiveness, for a chance to make everything better. And I’ll make it quick.”

The man’s breath caught audibly in his throat and Ryan could see his hands shaking, eyes wide and wild as he thought. Ryan pressed his blade harder against the man’s throat and he gulped. “Please. Please, don’t. Just...let’s just walk away from this. We’ll pretend it never happened. Okay? Honest misunderstanding, please,” he said, fear quieting his words to almost a whisper.

Ryan glanced at Jeremy, who tilted his head at the man and then looked back at Ryan with a small nod. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to play right now,” Ryan said, and he swiped the knife quickly across the man’s throat.

Blood sprayed from the gash, mixing with Ryan’s blood on his face and shirt, and it poured quickly from the fatal wound. The man’s eyes widened and he tried to speak, but the only noise he could make was a wet gurgling gasp as his hands flew to his throat. It didn’t take long until their grip loosened and the man slumped to the ground, eyes rolling up in his head, blood being forced from his throat in smaller and smaller bursts until it trickled out slowly, no longer aided by his heart.

Ryan didn’t realize how much he was shaking until the knife fell from his hand, and the impact against the concrete was so quiet and soft he almost didn’t notice it. His head felt thick and full of cotton, his body numb, as his own blood continued to leave his body through the various cuts inflicted on him.

A hand fell on his shoulder and Jeremy looked at him worriedly, and he opened his mouth and spoke, but the words weren’t quite clear enough for Ryan to make out. They were a faint buzz in the background, and Ryan’s vision started to darken as the blood loss took hold. The last thing he did hear before falling unconscious was Jeremy’s emphatic, “Shit.” And then the world faded into blissful darkness.


End file.
